


linger til dawn

by anastea



Category: Cowboy Bebop
Genre: M/M, blow jobs!, fanfic tropes abound!, fluff!, lots of blushing!, unbearably sappy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1349839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anastea/pseuds/anastea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>jet falls in love, in seven parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	linger til dawn

I.

The first time Spike invites Jet to his bed Jet turns it down out of pure shock.

"You know I like women, right?" he's said after a moment of horrifying silence. Wisps of Spike's cigarette smoke hang in the air between them.

"Yeah, so do I," Spike says with a shrug. He clears away some of the smoke with a wave of his hand. He takes another drag. Jet's standing by the television and Spike is leaning up against the doorframe, turned only slightly back towards Jet like the proposition had been no more than a casual afterthought. "That doesn't really answer the question. Do you want to sleep with me or not?"

Jet has no idea what to say.

"I-" is all he manages to stutter. He has every idea what he _should_ say but the thing is that shoulds are kind of blurry when it comes to Spike. He should, he knows, say no. He should have already said it.

But there's something about the way Spike asked that trips him up. There's something about Spike that trips him up, Spike with his aloofness so pronounced and then, out of nowhere, this. Nonchalant. The words had dropped off of his tongue slow and sweet like maple syrup, like this was easy, like there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about asking your shipmate to bed - a shipmate you'd met only three weeks ago, a shipmate from whom, presumably, you were only ever hitching a ride.

Through space. A ride through space. Jet thinks he might be blushing. 

"You're crazy," he winds up saying, because it's familiar, a phrase he's already said to Spike at least fifty times in the past three weeks. Grasping for some normalcy seems like the best way to go. Normalcy means Spike does stupid, crazy things and Jet worries. Normalcy means Spike stands in front of the window smoking or stretches out sleeping on the couch, limbs askew, and Jet looks at him for as long as he likes, and no one notices and nothing changes.

Spike shrugs again and puts out his cigarette on the heel of his shoe. "Saw you looking, figured I'd offer. Let me know if you change your mind."

He rolls out of the room the way he always does, like a page turning, movement fluid as water. And Jet stays where he is like he always does, like a boulder in comparison. Jutting up out of place. Unwieldy. In the way. Too big for his tiny soul, rattling around inside its brute of a cage. 

He stares after Spike, feeling like Goliath in David's wake.

II.

It took about three days after they first met for Jet to know he wanted Spike.

He's not accustomed to liking men. He can't say he's ever felt this way about one before, but, well, he's been told not to too many times to remember where his father's voice stops and his own begins when it comes to this kind of thing. He's always felt out of place with women, somehow, in bed - all clumsy fingers and awkward limbs, not knowing what he wants or how to take control if she asks him to, always too bulky, always unsatisfied - but he's never even considered men an option.

Spike isn't an option.

Because Spike doesn't give you the option, really, he just waltzes in with a bored slump of his shoulders and a slow, quiet smile and just kind of _looks_ at you like he knows exactly what you want and always has, and what you want is him. 

It's kind of terrifying, but also it's kind of fun.

Well, okay, mostly terrifying.

They’ve come off the high of a ridiculously exhilarating mission, whizzing through space at some absurd, record-breaking speed. They’d smashed through three city windows today in a chase, crashed headlong into some kind of a black-tie gala (a disaster that only Spike could've charmed his way out of), accidentally kidnapped a dignitary’s daughter, and after all that they’d even caught the guy, finally, out in orbit like he thought he was home free. 

Jet knows he could slow the Bebop down, now that it’s over, but everything is still so _exciting_ , somehow. Spike’s popping open a bottle of champagne, and Jet’s never seen his wild hair so messy. His gardener’s fingers itch to smooth it back.

“God, this is it,” Spike’s grinning, sloppily dumping the champagne into his glass, and Jet can’t even bring himself to care about wasting alcohol. Spike’s glee is infectious. “This is why I do this. Gotta love the thrill of a good chase, y’know? This is just heaven. Smooth-sailin’ heaven, right into the stars.”

“You talk a lot of nonsense, did you know that,” Jet huffs, but he’s smiling too, and he takes the champagne glass Spike offers. Spike laughs, loud and happy, and it echoes into the bulkheads. Sounds almost like the whole Bebop is laughing with them.

“You grumpy killjoy,” Spike says, “Even you can’t get me down right now. I’m so happy I could kiss you.” 

There’s a silence. Spike’s eyes narrow. 

And all of a sudden, Jet gets a very, very bad feeling about this.

“Maybe I will kiss you,” Spike says, a mischievous glint sparking up in his eyes. He sets his champagne glass down on the control panel. Half of Jet wants to tell him to please not put that there, you’re gonna damage the wiring again, and the other half is already too deep in full-fledged panic mode to say a word. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he manages to squeak, but it’s far too late for that. Spike’s already advancing, looking like a predator hunting prey. There’s something terrifyingly sexy about that and Jet really, really can’t think about it.

“You’re hardly protesting,” Spike notes, and Jet would say he sounded confused if the look on his face wasn’t so goddamn sure. If it wasn’t always like that with Spike. Jet knows that confidence of his has to be a veil for something, but he’s never been good at people, really, and he doesn’t know how to even begin pulling it back.

Spike is close now. Jet can see the flush of pink still splashed across his cheeks from the day’s adrenaline, can see that wisps of Spike’s hair are plastered to his forehead and curled around the edges of his ears with sweat. Can tell, distinctly, that his eyes are two different colors – the first time he’s looked long enough to notice. He’s paralyzed in his seat. Caught in the headlights. Spike leans down and plants a hand firmly on each arm of Jet’s chair, trapping him where he sits. 

“Speak now or forever hold your peace,” he says lowly, his eyes still laughing. At Jet or with him, Jet can’t tell. Jet can’t really tell many things right now. The Bebop hurtles through space at some absurd record-breaking speed. Jet’s stomach ties itself into a million knots, and his heart catches up with the Bebop’s speedometer. 

Say something, he tells himself, but it’s the feeblest persuasion attempt he’s ever made. Spike is intoxicatingly close.

“Time’s up,” Spike murmurs, eyes flicking up from Jet’s lips to meet his eyes, and before Jet can remember to breathe Spike’s mouth is pressed against his.

It’s weird, at first. 

It’s much – softer, than he thought it would be, kissing a man. Being kissed by one, really. He’s still frozen. But Spike doesn’t seem to mind, moving slowly, and the weirdness melts away like sugar on his tongue as warmth billows through his chest, his abdomen, inches up his cheeks and the back of his neck. He likes this, too much, the softness of Spike’s mouth and the hand that’s found its way to Jet’s jaw, tilting his head for a better angle, and the way Spike’s tongue lingers on his lower lip. Something dizzy spins its way into his head. Something long-ignored unfurls in his chest.

Spike shifts up and away, only incrementally, but Jet finds himself following. He knows he’s blushing like hell, and he doesn’t want Spike to see. And he doesn’t want Spike to stop.

Spike stops.

“Gotcha,” he grins, two inches away. 

Jet’s blush _burns_ against his skin. “What’s that supposed to mean,” he growls, louder than intended, but Spike is already retreating, laughing, laughing, laughing. “Come back here!” He calls, anger spurring his voice, words escaping now as if Spike’s laughter had broken the spell that trapped them. “What the hell was that?” 

But Spike’s already gone, out through the door of the cockpit, and thirty seconds later he’s yelling from the kitchen to ask if Jet wants him to bring him a beer.

It takes half an hour for Jet’s blush to subside. 

It was a fluke, he tells himself, a stupid, adrenaline-driven joke of a gesture, one of Spike’s games. And as for the way he’d reacted, well. He’d had an exciting day too, and he’d been alone for a long time now. Enough to get anyone worked up, really. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Spike hums an unrecognizable jazz tune for the next couple of weeks and sometimes Jet thinks he sees him glancing his way under long eyelashes.

III.

“You _moron_ ,” Jet shouts, tearing himself out of his seat in the cockpit to storm furiously into the living room. Spike has just stumbled in, jacket torn, bruises mottling the side of his face. Wild hair, calm eyes.

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” he says, tucking his hands in his pockets. He smiles. “You should see the other guy.”

“If he sees me it’ll be the last time he sees anyone,” Jet says, and Spike chuckles under his breath. “What’d you do.”

“I, uh. Tried to bust a smuggling ring. Maybe not the best idea I've ever had.”

“Tech ring?” Tech smugglers are harmless. Spike could probably bust a tech ring on his own. Jet could forgive him that. "Drugs?"

“Arms.”

_What._

Rage slams into Jet’s body, every square inch of it at once, dizzyingly, terrifyingly fast. He can feel it pumping through his blood. He can feel its fingers tighten around his heart. “Without me.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Didn’t involve you.” Spike pulls a cigarette from his pocket. Lights it. Takes a drag. 

“It didn’t-“ Jet can hardly get a single word out from between his clenched teeth. He’s _furious_. He’s shaking with it, now, body betraying his attempts at restraint. _Fuck_ restraint. If he had something in his hands, he’d break it. He’d throw it across the room. “It didn’t _involve_ me?” 

Spike shrugs, and his indifference is the last straw.

“Put that thing _down_ ,” Jet shouts, and before he can stop himself he strides forward and grabs Spike’s wrist, wrenching the flimsy cigarette from his fingers. He crushes it against his arm and tosses it aside. Sparks glint off the metal, embers scatter red-gold across the floor. Spike’s eyes are suddenly wide with fear and Jet thinks, _good. Good. You’ve acted like you own this place for long enough._ “That’s not how it _works_ , Spike. You don’t get to live on my ship, eat my food, share my bounty, share in my life, and then go off and do something dangerous on your own because it doesn’t _involve_ me.” 

This has been a long time coming. This has been a problem for too long. Spike has been on the Bebop six months, and it’s time to stop pretending he’s only hitching a ride. That’s not what this is anymore. That’s not what Jet wants this to be.

His blood is boiling. He tightens his fist around Spike’s arm and he doesn’t care if it hurts. Spike’s eyes are even wider now, somehow, his lips slightly parted in confusion and shock. “Don’t you get it?” Jet spits, fury shaking through his bones. He has to make him get it. “Everything you _do_ involves me now. You chose to be here, didn’t you? We chose to be partners, didn’t we? So that’s it, Spike, we’re partners. We’re in it, all of it, together. You could have _died_ , getting involved in something that dangerous. Did you think of that?”

“I just thought-“

“You just thought _nothing_ , you stupid- you idiotic-“ And then Jet can think of nothing else to do, nothing else to do with his hands and his body and the energy pouring like fire through his veins but push him up against a wall and kiss him, hungry, violent.

It’s nothing like the first time, months ago, now, nearly forgotten. No. This is almost desperate, months of restless waiting condensed into this single tiny point of space and time. A question that need an answer. A plea. Jet hates it but that's what it is, begging, begging Spike to understand something he’s not even sure he understands himself. It’s too late to take it back, he knows. Almost manically he thinks: it’s all or nothing now! The next thirty seconds will decide if Spike will stay or Spike will go. Jet starts counting down.

It only takes five for Spike to start kissing him back.

Jet’s mouth pushes Spike’s open first but Spike’s got initiative, pressing his body forward into Jet’s, taking Jet’s breath with his tongue, moving his hands to sink his fingers into Jet’s neck. Holding on, pushing in, making sure Jet knows he's answering. 

I don’t even know what the question is, Jet wants to say, but he’d have to stop, and he can’t imagine stopping, not now, not when he’s just discovered how to breathe with someone else. Not when he’s just discovered how this feels. Not when he’s just discovered that Spike’s shirt is riding up in the back, thank god, when his fingers have just found Spike’s skin. Fires spark across his nerve endings and down his spine and he remembers cigarette embers, skipping across the floor. Spike tastes like smoke and soda. He feels like home.

“I knew you wanted to sleep with me,” Spike breathes out against Jet’s mouth, and before Jet can kiss him again, both of them are laughing.

“I hate you so much,” Jet sighs, “I hate you so much, Spike.”

Spike kisses him, open-mouthed and needy, winding his arms carelessly around Jet’s neck. Against his better judgment Jet takes the bait. He kisses back. He can’t stop himself. He takes Spike’s lower lip between his teeth and Spike lets out a breathy whimper Jet wants to play on repeat for the rest of his life. 

“I find you mildly irritating,” Spike drawls, wedging a long leg between Jet’s thighs. A moan escapes between Jet’s lips before he can stop it, and Spike is about as merciful as Jet would expect him to be. He grins delightedly. Jet blushes beet red. “Again,” Spike demands, and presses his leg in closer this time, slipping his hands around Jet’s waist and down into his back pockets. Jet drops his forehead against Spike’s and does it again.

“Bedroom?” He rasps.

“You should’ve said yes when I asked you months ago,” Spike replies. He’s beaming. He’s beautiful. Jet can’t breathe.

They fall into bed less than gracefully, but they’re laughing, and they peel off each other’s clothes like they’re shedding old weight. Jet knows now that his anger was fear - he can’t lose him. Won’t lose him. 

“I’m here,” Spike murmurs like he can read Jet’s thoughts, and Jet presses a kiss to the center of his chest, in the valley between his ribs. One to his stomach, above his bellybutton, one below, one to the soft hair trailing downwards. Kissing down his body reverently, like prayer. That’s stupid, Jet would think, if he could think at all. 

Spike’s eyes are fluttering shut. He fists his hand into the sheets. “Jet,” he breathes, but Jet’s already pulling his boxers down, already moving his mouth against the head of Spike’s cock. Spike makes the whimpering noise again, and Jet catalogues that away for the next time. And the next time, and the next. He steadies Spike’s hips with his hands and takes him in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Spike swears, and Jet wants to take every inch of him apart. He’s never done this before and he’s slow and unsure and probably not very good but Spike doesn’t seem to mind at all. He’s already whispering curses like he’s forgotten how not to.

“More,” he breathes, and Jet moves faster, taking him deeper. Spike is twisting the sheet into a ball with his fist, jaw slack, mouth forming indiscernible words. He opens his eyes and looks down at Jet, face glazed with sweat and something like bliss. Their eyes meet. Jet licks a slow stripe up Spike’s shaft and swallows him down.

And Spike comes, hips arching off the bed. Jet nearly chokes, not ready for the sudden movement, but he shifts and pins Spike down again, big hands firm on Spike’s skinny hips. Riding it out with him. Spike is making soft noises and Jet’s straining against his own boxers, skin burning to be closer.

He swallows when Spike settles and pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm. He feels bad after he does it, like maybe it’s not kosher to do that, how would he know (Spike would know), but Spike’s eyes are closed anyway and he’s breathing hard. He looks horribly, achingly gorgeous, in spite of the bruises. Jet could cry.

“That was fast.” He’s laughing instead. It’s bubbling up in his chest and all his nerves are shaking out, the energy that had kept them pent up all expended. He’s light-headed. “I didn’t know how badly _you_ wanted to sleep with _me._ ” 

Spike actually _blushes_ , and Jet could die right now in this bed. He crawls up over Spike and kisses him, trying to show him how much he doesn’t care. Fast, slow, good, bad. He doesn’t care about anything but the fact that it’s _Spike_ , in _his bed_. 

“Yeah, well. I’m just better at staring discreetly.” Spike looks up at Jet and yes, his eyes are definitively two different colors. Both beautiful. He still looks wrecked, hair the messiest Jet has ever seen it.

Jet grunts. “From now on I’ll notice.”

“I’m counting on it,” Spike says. He reaches down and presses his palm between Jet’s legs, and Jet lets out an involuntary sigh of relief. “Your turn,” Spike whispers, and silently Jet thanks every benevolent god whose existence he’s ever denied.

IV.

Jet’s fucking slowly into Spike’s mouth in the shower stall when Faye Valentine walks in on them. It’s her second day on board.

Okay, so it’s not the _most_ embarrassing situation of his life. Spike’s the one on his knees, back pressed against the shower wall, hair soaked and slick against his forehead and the back of his neck. The shower’s off but rivulets of water are trickling down both of their chests and lingering on their limbs; Jet’s metal arm gleams silver. He’s busy memorizing the shower ceiling in an attempt to stay grounded when Spike makes a half-choking noise, and he turns abruptly red as he looks down in time to see Faye pushing through the door. She stops dead in her tracks. 

Silence.

“Well this is _surreal_ ,” she says in a daze. 

Spike gives her a cheeky thumbs up from his position on the shower floor.

Jet’s sending her the most obvious Look in the galaxy but clearly she’s unable to read the _please leave_ etched into every line of his face, so he tries for words. “Can you give us a minute?” His voice comes out hoarse. Spike digs his fingers into Jet’s thighs where he’s holding them and _rolls_ his tongue, and it takes all of Jet’s willpower to hold back a whimper.

“Oh,” Faye says. Jet can see full realization of the fact that this is actually happening dawning on her face, and god, this is getting more embarrassing by the second. It's excruciating. _Leave, leave, leave,_ he chants in his head. His cock is still in Spike’s mouth. He knows without a doubt the stupid bastard’s finding this all terrifically hilarious. Infuriating as goddamn always.

Faye huffs. “Yeah, sure thing, cowboys. Clean up when you’re done, will you. _Try_ not to forget there’s a lady on board now.”

Spike and Jet simultaneously roll their eyes, and a split second after Faye disappears Spike is pushing forward and swallowing Jet down. 

Jet’s irrepressible moan is met with a high-pitched, exasperated “Jesus Christ” from Faye out in the hallway. Jet could not be paid to care.

V. 

“Hey Jet, pass the pan, will you?”

“C’mon, Spike, no more. You know this is all we have for the rest of the week.”

“Wait, what? And you already let him eat that much?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t eat the last of the bread yesterday. I saw you do it.”

“ED WANTS MORE!”

“Jesus Christ, Faye, look what you taught the kid.”

“I didn’t teach the kid anything, Spiegel. She’s _hungry._ We haven’t had a job in weeks.”

“WEEKS, WEEKS! MORE FOOD!”

“God, Jet, let’s never have kids.” 

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good thing. You’d be the universe’s worst fathers. You can’t even take care of the dog.”

“Like you’d be any better, Valentine?”

“ _I’m_ the motherly type. Ed loves me, don’t you, Ed.”

“FAYE-FAYE SAID YOU GUYS SLEEP TOGETHER _NAKED_.”

“…alright, so I’m a little inappropriate. Don’t look at me like that. Hey, what are you doing? Don’t take that! Hey, that’s all we have for the week! Jet! Stop him!”

“All yours, honey.”

“Aw, shanks shweetheart.”

“You guys are disgusting. I’m going to bed.”

VI.

It’s night. Well, it’s always night, technically, floating out in space. Sometimes it’s hard to know how long he’s been awake. If the clocks stop working he sometimes sits on the living room couch reading for hours into his usual bedtime, not knowing the difference. The stars out the window still shimmer, still look far away. No matter how close you get to one there are always galaxies more waiting out there, just out of reach. Twinkling in the distance like tiny holes in an infinite canvas. Letting the light of other universes shine through.

That’s something Spike said once, anyway. Jet thinks about it. Sometimes Jet thinks he thinks about the things Spike says more than Spike does.

“Hey,” Spike walks up next to Jet, standing by the window, staring out at the stars. “Can’t sleep?” He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket. Offers one to Jet. Jet declines.

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

“What about?”

 _You_ , Jet wants to say, but that’s corny as hell and he won’t say it. Spike’ll just laugh, anyway. “How we’re gonna eat this month.”

“You worry too much.” Jet’s not looking at Spike, but he can tell he’s smiling. They’ve been sharing a ship for a while, now, and a bed for not much less. Jet can tell Spike’s mood by the way he shifts his weight, by the way his fingers curl around his cigarette. He remembers when Spike was a mystery, and finds he’s smiling, too. The halls of the Bebop lie quiet and still.

“It’s our anniversary, you know,” Spike says.

He’s always been bad with dates. “Ah. Shit.” 

Spike chuckles softly and blows out smoke. It drifts lazily between them, brushes Jet’s face. “No worries. I’m not one for traditions myself.” He turns and takes a couple steps back into the living room, presumably to get a drink. Jet knows he’ll be back and he stays where he is, looking out. 

Has it really been only a year? He can hardly remember a time before Spike. Before the Bebop smelled like cigarette smoke and his fridge was never full, before the sheets were always slightly skewed towards the left side of the bed. He doesn’t know how he’d lived with the loneliness, back before there was anyone to make fun of his bonsais, play the drums on his metal arm with chopsticks. Leave him stupid and usually inappropriate doodles around the ship on napkin corners and old newspapers. They’re on a ship that’s constantly moving and there’s never any guarantee of their next meal, but Jet feels settled. Like this has always been his life and always will be. Like the Bebop has carved out its own slice in space and time, just him and Spike, Faye, Ed, and Ein, safe in their own little universe. 

The radio whirs and hums to life in the next room, and a slow, gravelly jazz tune starts to play. It’s quiet and warm, and Jet turns to see Spike roll back into the doorway.

“Dance with me,” he says.

 _Stars shining bright above you,_ the radio crackles.

Jet hates dancing. Right away he feels it again, that out-of-place feeling, nervous, too small for his body, too big for the room. Clunky and unsure, he mutters something gruffly about two left feet. He’s looking down and starting to sweat and trying to quell the feeling swelling in his chest, a burning sense of inadequacy he’s never quite managed to conquer. He itches to flee, to hide in his bonsai garden until his heart slows down. 

But not even his garden can make that feeling go away like Spike can, and Spike’s at his side. “C’mon. You owe me one.”

“For what?” His breathing is easier already.

“You forgot our anniversary.” Spike’s grinning and slipping his arms around Jet’s neck, and it’s too late to back out now. One year too late.

“So much for not caring about traditions,” Jet mumbles. Not sure if he’s doing the right thing, he winds his arms around Spike’s waist. Spike doesn’t seem to care if he’s doing the right thing or not. Spike never does.

“Say nighty-night and kiss me,” Spike hums along with the music. They sway, and it doesn’t take long for Jet to stop caring, too, whether he’s moving in time. He’s moving with Spike. “You know,” Spike says, “I almost chose the other one.”

“What?”

“The other ship. The day I hitched a ride there were two ships in the port, remember. The other guy was looking for passengers to help pay his way. Almost went with him. Eventually figured it’d be harder to trace me if I wasn’t an official passenger.”

“So you’re saying you mooched off me for six months cause I was further off the radar.”

Spike laughs. “I like to think of it as borrowing. Besides, I helped with jobs, didn’t I.”

“Sure you did.” Jet leans into Spike a little more, giving way to the sleepiness creeping its way through his bones. It’s been a long, long week. Four chases, and only one catch. He sighs. They’ve made enough for now. They’ll make do. Spike’s right, he thinks, as Spike puts out his cigarette on Jet’s metal arm and drops it to the floor. I do worry too much.

_I’m longing to linger til dawn, dear, just saying this._

“What I’m saying is,” Spike smiles fondly, “I’m glad I chose this one, alright.” 

The smoke curls around them and the radio sings a solo sax. Jet’s blushing again, because he never can seem to stop himself. “Yeah, me too,” he says, voice low.

Spike leans forward and kisses him, soft and sweet. His lips are warm and the way he moves is familiar now - kissing Spike, Jet thinks, is like drinking a glass of his favorite scotch. It burns in the good way, the kind that makes you feel like you’re drinking sunlight. He tightens his arms around Spike’s waist and kisses him back. 

_I’m in love with this idiot,_ he thinks, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to say it.

It’s okay. They have enough for now. They’ll make do. Jet won’t worry like he always does – no, he won’t worry at all. There’s plenty of time. Tonight, there’s all the time in the world.

_And in your dreams, whatever they be, dream a little dream of me._

VII.

“Julia,” Spike mumbles in his sleep again. 

Jet turns over and tries to see how tightly he can close his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the most unbearably sappy thing I've ever written. I'd like to apologize to the characters and also to the universe.


End file.
